


With a Candle Hold the Night

by significantowl



Category: British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Candles, Established Relationship, Halloween, M/M, Moving In Together, Sexual Content, Supernatural Elements, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:56:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2622572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Michael listened, but he didn't understand.</i><br/>For Luninosity's prompt in the McFassy Autumn Extravaganza: James/Michael: decorating for autumn and/or their first Halloween in their new shared flat, after moving in together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With a Candle Hold the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity) in the [mcfassy_autumn_extravaganza_2014](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/mcfassy_autumn_extravaganza_2014) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  James/Michael: decorating for autumn and/or their first Halloween in their new shared flat, after moving in together.
> 
> (if porn happens or not, that's entirely cool either way; prompter has slight bottom!James preferences, but write what feels right!)
> 
>  
> 
> ...Luni, this probably wasn't what you were expecting, but I hope you like it! Happy Autumn! :-)
> 
> Many thanks to Capriccio!

James told him. On a cloudless day in August, as they unpacked boxes and arranged furniture, while sweat dripped from Michael’s hair and rolled down his back. Every sash was lowered, every window flung open wide in the hope a breeze would stir the dead air. 

_This place is incredible_. James turned slowly in place, taking in every corner of their new front room. _Listen. I may need to do it up a bit, come Hallowe’en._

Michael listened, but he didn’t understand.

*

Two months have passed since the pointy little house in Kentish Town became _their_ house, or at least partly so, with their flat spanning three floors on the eastern side of a dividing wall. The best side, James had said on that first day. The side where the sun rises.

It’s a tall house, narrow and Gothic, with a roof that peaks twice against the sky like the ears of a witch’s cat. The dark-shuttered third-storey windows are the cat’s eyes; because the shutters on their side are always open, the cat is perpetually winking at the world, on the verge of sharing a secret.

But not today, Michael realises as he walks up the lane. The last light of October faded hours ago; streetlamps and car headlights aid him now. They tell a surprising tale. The cat’s eyes are closed.

He lets himself into the conservatory-slash-parlour at the front of the house. It lies dead centre, a small room with mullioned bay windows capped by an arched awning of silvery glass. Normally, soft light shines out through the windows from lamps or the television, hinting at the life being lived inside. But tonight it’s dark, the cat’s gaping maw, and after a moment Michael realises the windows have been shrouded with thick black drapes.

But before that, he notices the candles. And James, sat in the middle of them all.

They’re all white, some slim and tall and obviously freshly-bought, others stubby and short with wax fingers creeping down their sides. Those came here with James, Michael thinks dimly through his shock. The place was as bare as a tomb when they moved in; James didn’t find those in a drawer. They came here in one of his boxes, and the holders along with them.

Sitting on the floor in front of the settee, knees drawn up to his chest, James says, “Heya.”

“Heya yourself.” They’re all lit. On the side tables, marching along the mantel, lined up in front of the windows, surrounding James on the floor. Lit and burning with steady white flames.

Michael’s lost.

“I did tell you,” James says unsteadily. “I did say I’d have to do the place up for All Hallow’s.” He ducks his head. “Guessin’ by your face you’ve never… no-one in your family has to do this, like?”

He doesn’t trust his voice. Doesn’t trust himself to pick the right words, say them the right way. He shakes his head.

“Gran got started the first year I lived with her. Paralysed with fright, she was, me toddling ‘round the place, talking to people who weren’t there…. But her mam was still alive, back then, and she rang her up. Knew right what to do.” James’ fingers are weaving restlessly, locking and unlocking where they’re clasped around one knee. He gives Michael a crooked smile that's half-obscured by shadows. “Do you believe me and all? You can say no. It’s all right.”

Michael wets his throat. He’d been poised on the edge right up until the moment James asked the question, half-convinced James was in deadly earnest, half-certain it was a Halloween prank, James’ way of bringing a bit of atmosphere to their evening… but now he knows. James would never ask for Michael’s trust only to rip it away. He means every word of this.

“Of course I do.” However many hours he'd clocked as a boy being lectured on the eternal nature of the soul - all souls in general, and his own in particular, whenever the Sisters at school had caught him neck-deep in mischief - and however much of that may or may not still be sloshing around the deep places inside of him…. Well, from there to here would be a fair leap yet, and likely an impossible one, if James weren’t the one carrying him through it.

The smile James gives him holds a glimmer of hope that wrenches Michael’s heart. It’s as if he wants to believe Michael in return, but he can’t, not quite. His fingers are still moving restlessly, clenching and unclenching; holding himself together, that’s what he’s trying to do.

“Can I -” Michael breaks off, gesturing. He doesn’t know what the candles are for, if they’re some sort of protection. He only knows he wants to go to James. Touch him. Ground him.

“Please,” James says, a crack in his voice. “Be nice not to watch alone.”

Carefully, so carefully, Michael picks his way through the flames. At first he settles on the floor beside James, but James scoots forward, and Michael knows what he wants. He tucks himself into the space between James and the settee, drawing James’ solid back against his chest, bracketing him between his legs.

It’s exactly right. James leans back, exhaling. But tension runs through him like a live current, and Michael slowly rubs his palms down his arms. “I need to ask you something,” he says quietly. “Why’d you agree to this place? Why didn’t you stop us? If you knew it was -”

He can’t bring himself to say the actual word. ‘Haunted’ is still a step too far.

“I didn’t know. I _don’t_ know." James waves a hand, fingers throwing spindly shadows across the floor. "Most of the year that world is closed for me.... The candles will tell me if anyone comes calling. If they burn blue.”

“But we could’ve chosen somewhere else.” Michael knows he's making it worse; James is tensing under his hands. But he has to say this now, because he didn’t get the chance back then. “Some brand-new block of flats. It didn’t have to be a house like this, with a past.”

“We liked _this_ house. This neighbourhood. That shop on the corner with the sixteen flavours of hummus.” James’ breath catches painfully. “Michael. This city _is_ the past.”

Every flat in London, that's what James is saying. Including the studio he’d had before? In Michael’s memory it’s a snug, cheerful place, bright as he’ll forever remember the early days of their relationship to be. How many Hallowe’en nights did James keep vigil on that floor, surrounded by candles, alone?

But not this night. His arms tighten around James. "You googled the place, didn't you. While I checked how far we were from a Tesco’s, you -” 

Checked old records for grisly murders.

James snorts softly. "Too fuckin' right I did.”

The tap-tap-tap of fingers on a keyboard. A sea of white candles tucked into a box. Those heavy black drapes folded into another - James’ knee had probably creaked, picking that up. The tangible realities are getting to Michael, the things he should have seen, should have heard. James had come into this prepared. He’d come in oblivious.

He presses a kiss to the crown of James’ head, and hopes that softness and warmth will spread through him, right down to his fingers and toes. Michael’s not angry; he couldn’t be. Trying to find the words for something like this must have been like facing an insurmountable wall.

“The windows,” Michael says slowly, thinking. “The mirror. Do the drapes hide us?"

"Yes and no.” James shakes his head, hair tickling Michael's cheek. “Some of them need the glass to look through, to see in. The strong ones don't."

James' fingers are cold. Michael rubs them for a moment before tugging an afghan down from the settee. It's easier to believe everything when James is talking, saying these things in the same beloved voice that told Michael other truths that rearranged his world. Like _I want you_. And _I love you_.

Michael’s hands are moving of their own devices. He's petting James, he realises. Warming him. Soothing him. James sighs, long and gusty, and Michael feels good, feels like he’s doing something right.

The candles burn steady and true, and Michael’s hands roam.

He’s not afraid. Worried about James, yes, but fear’s not running through him the way it probably ought to be. He would feel guilty about that, but it’s not that he doesn’t believe James enough; it’s that he simply can’t picture the flames going blue. He can’t conceive of a moment in which James starts talking to empty air. He has an actor’s imagination, and he always thought that it was a good one, but it doesn’t stretch this far.

Michael’s hands are beneath the blanket now, sliding up James’ thighs. They freeze a beat too late.

“Never quite thought of myself as an exhibitionist,” James says softly. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

“Can -” Can ghosts see through blankets, Michael almost says. But he can’t finish that sentence, even though he genuinely wants to know how James would respond, because he’s afraid it’ll sound like he’s having a laugh. And this isn’t his experience to joke about.

He’d not even thought in terms of an audience, when he’d stopped. He’d only been worried that James wouldn’t want this right now.

“You can,” James says, misinterpreting his almost-question, and his legs fall ever so slightly open. Michael flattens his palms, letting his hands go heavy, and drags them along the seam of James’ jeans, up that strong inner thigh. Slow, slow, slow. James doesn’t rub up against him or make a single encouraging sound, but he said he didn’t want Michael to stop, so Michael doesn’t.

His hand slips up to the bulge in James’ jeans, and he cups him, holding still and steady until he feels the first twitch.

Gentle, Michael thinks. Slow. Let it creep up on James, let the first gasp just slip out of him, let his hips shift of their own accord, let his fingers go white-knuckled where he’s gripping his knees. If he can’t get off right now, if he’s too on edge, so be it. But let him enjoy the distraction.

When he mouths at the back of James’ neck, short hairs tickling his nose, James shivers in his arms. Michael keeps it up, kissing below James’ ear, down the column of his throat, back up again, and spreads his left hand wide over James’ chest, letting his thumb gently brush a nipple.

James’ back arches. _Result._

Encouraged, Michael pops the button on James’ jeans, tugs down the zip, and slips his cock out through the gap in his boxers. He’s mesmerised by the motion of his hand beneath the afghan, its leisurely journey up and down, up and down, and before long his own cock is plumping, tucked snug against James’ back. 

James’ cock is hot and stiff, and when Michael thumbs his slit his whole body jerks. He’s definitely gasping now, breathing fast and shallow with his lips gently parted, and his cheeks are flushed in the candlelight. “Can you let me watch for you?” Michael whispers. “Can you close your eyes? For me?”

He’s instantly afraid he’s fucked up. Broken the spell, asked for far more than James can give. The silence is terrifying.

James’ eyes slip shut.

The sudden rush of adrenaline and responsibility sends Michael’s heart pounding. If James can trust him with this, then Michael can see it through. He stares out at the candles until his vision nearly blurs, pulling out every trick that he knows that James likes: mouth on his neck, hand beneath his balls, thumb pressed to his tip at the crest of each strong, steady stroke.

James tenses, back tightening, hands grasping Michael’s legs, seeking purchase. Michael sucks softly below his jaw and pulls him through it, stroke after stroke, until he groans long and low and pulses in Michael's hand.

"Everything's fine," Michael murmurs. Spots are dancing in front of his eyes, little flickering tongues of light. Mercifully, all of them are white. James doesn’t reply, but his eyes open, and he sags back against Michael, catching his breath.

“I’ve passed this night in a lot of places,” James says, finally. “In a lot of ways. But never like this.” He laughs, and Michael’s heart leaps at how genuine it sounds. 

"That's a good thing?"

"Fuckin' better than," James says, twisting awkwardly in Michael’s arms. He’s trying to keep his eyes on the candles while scrabbling below Michael’s waist. Michael doesn’t want James to worry about him; he’s fine, and he tells James so, but James snorts and says, “So fine you’re jabbing me in the back,” and there’s no denying that’s true.

So Michael lets himself be manhandled. He assumes they’ll just switch positions, but James’ hands are firm and purposeful and somehow he ends up sprawled over James’ lap, propped on his knees and elbows, with his forehead resting on the bunched-up afghan and his jeans and underwear pushed low.

He bucks when James’ strong square hand grabs Michael’s cock. There’s no hesitation in James’ grip, no sense that he’s distracted, and he tugs Michael’s cock with a steady, relentless rhythm turns out to be exactly what Michael needed. 

Maybe it’s what James needed, too. Something predictable, something measured, something to get lost in.

Michael’s cock pulses. James’ hand is splayed over his shoulder, and he feels wonderfully pinned in place, back arched, the only freedom his body has is his cock’s permission to swell. It does. He’s getting harder, jutting out longer. He’s pointing down at the floor, and the twin inexorable forces of James’ grasp and gravity have him growing desperately heavy. The hand on his shoulder slips, sliding down his spine, and Michael’s hips suddenly go wild, driving him down into James’ slick palm, slick because Michael’s dripping on the floor. 

Michael’s breathing is the loudest thing in the room.

And James’ hand keeps moving down Michael’s back. Suddenly he’s gripping Michael’s arse - no, not just gripping, _squeezing_ in time with every stroke, with every thrust of Michael’s hips. It’s building, it’s building, Michael rides out another stroke, then another, and all at once he’s coming with a bitten-off shout.

His whole body's shaking. It’s either collapse over James’ legs or struggle up to a sitting position next to him, and Michael manages the latter with very little grace. His knees hurt. And his elbows. They should get carpeting in.

James is grinning, bright and beautiful in the candlelight. “Should’ve gone for it, made a bit more noise,” he says. “Might’ve scared any guests off.”

“Make me come again and I promise I’ll shout the house down. Christ, no, I’m joking,” Michael adds hastily, batting James’ hands away. “Monster.”

They’re both wrecked. James has tucked himself back into his damp boxers, but not even tried zipping up his jeans, and Michael winces now as he attempts to work his own sticky underwear and jeans back up over his hips.

“We can go upstairs,” James says, watching his efforts. “Draw a bath. It’s nearly midnight.”

“What happens at midnight?”

A smile tugs at James’ mouth, exhausted and heartbreakingly close to relief. “It’s over.”

Leaving now almost sounds like madness. Yet Michael wonders how much James _needs_ to do it, walk away from this circle of candlelight before the witching hour has passed, just to prove that he can. Perhaps as much as he’d needed to do what they’ve just done together: defiantly embrace life in the face of death.

When James rises to his feet, Michael follows suit. James reaches for a tall candle from the mantelpiece and holds it, shielding the flame. “Keep one for yourself," he instructs quietly, "and blow the rest out.”

Michael does as he's told. It's startling how much more vulnerable he feels with each candle that goes out; one by one, tongues of smoke replace flickering light, and it’s the power of his breath that drives the change. But he won’t falter. James has trusted him with this, too.

The ring of light at James' feet is left for last. Kneeling at James' side, glancing up at his face, Michael tries to imagine what it must feel like for James to stand there so still, so steady, while inky shadows creep in. He’s looking for even the smallest sign that he should stop, but James' expression never wavers, and when there’s only one candle left, Michael picks it up and rises to his feet once again.

Just the two of them against the darkness, their own light held in their hands. 

All the familiar angles and corners of their flat have become alien, otherworldly, property of the night and the shadows. Michael feels for a moment as if he’s on a film set: creeping out of the parlour and along the silent corridor, moving slowly up the staircase, hands cupped around candle flames to keep them from guttering out. Light flickering on the walls as they ascend, shadows leaping higher and higher, the heat of the tiny, bright flame against his palm. He’s _done_ this in a film - except then it was artificial. Unreal. Safe.

The mirror in their loo has already been covered, Michael notices, and the curtains over the small window have been drawn. James sets his candle down next to the sink and peels off his clothes, hair going wild as jumper and tee drag over his head. While Michael does the same, James leans over the deep clawfoot tub to turn the taps.

Michael’s hit with a shiver of real fear. There are only two candles in this room as opposed to the dozens downstairs, and James’ back is to both of them. Seeing James let his guard down so much - but no. That’s not what he’s done. Because he’s not watching alone. Michael is facing the flames, and Michael can bear that trust.

It’s Michael’s imagination that’s the trouble. It seems to finally be kicking in, and this suddenly feels like a moment in a horror film - James stretched over that yawning ceramic tub, off-balance, vulnerable, exposed. Easy to imagine the water rising up preternaturally fast, some unseen force slamming James’ head down into it, Michael tugging with all his might but unable to pull him free….

It’s just water. It’s nearly midnight. _Stop._

With candle in hand, Michael yanks open a drawer and begins rummaging through it. They’re having a bath; bubbles would be nice. And he knows there’s bubble bath in here, a spicy orange and clove scent, in those tiny little bottles James hoarded from their hotel in Montreal. Somewhere -

His reflection is distorted by the wavering candlelight. He’s looking down into his unprotected shaving mirror, the small collapsible one that he travels with. He hears James gasp.

Michael slams the drawer shut as hard as he can.

His throat’s working, but no sounds are coming out. His heart’s pounding. James gently nudges him away from the handle, and slides the drawer back open.

Over James’ shoulder, all Michael sees in the mirror are the shifting shadows of the room, and the pale sliver of James’ face. All he hears is the steady rush of water splashing into the tub.

The candles are burning blue.

He can’t breathe. This must have been what it was like for James’ grandmother, all those years ago. Standing by and watching as his young eyes tracked visitors she couldn’t see, as he listened, rapt, to voices she couldn’t hear.

“Hello,” James says, quiet and clear. “Thank you for sharing your home with us. We love it here.”

Michael’s not sure he can agree with that last bit, not anymore. His hands are shaking. So is James’ voice, just a little, under a veneer of calm. He doesn’t reach for the drawer again, no matter how much he wants to. Instead, he edges forward in front of James. He wants it to be very clear to whatever’s in that mirror that James isn’t alone.

But of course James can tell what he’s trying to do, and stops Michael from blocking him from sight entirely with a hand to his arm. “She’s rather glad we moved in,” he says. “The people next door are horribly boring, apparently. Spirit-deaf. She’s been peeping through their mirrors for hours.”

“Spirit-deaf like me.” And Christ, doesn't that send shivers up the back, knowing you're being watched when you yourself can't see. James' voice sounds steadier; Michael hopes that's real, and not a grotesquely good bit of acting. That the _she_ in that mirror is some grey, gentle shade, not a figure significantly more terrifying to behold - his brain is concocting CGI images in style of one film after another, in absence of anything else to go on.

“Oh, but she likes you,” James says, with a smile so wicked and true that Michael’s heart sings. “She’s had four husbands, two in life and two in death, but with you standing there she’s seeing things she didn’t know were possible in either world.”

“Christ alive,” Michael says, hands dropping immediately into a cover position. There’s a difference in being naked for James or naked for a film and naked for the spirit population of north London, thank you very much.

James lets out a bark of laughter. Michael doesn’t know whether it’s directed at him, or at something else their company has just said. Their _ghost_. It finally feels real. There’s a ghost in the room, and it’s checking out his bits, and it’s talking to James.

"She was born the year Victoria came to the throne," James murmurs. "Can you imagine? She was a seamstress. Sat in the front room there and made clothes for everyone around. Wedding dresses and christening dresses and mourning-clothes.... people brought her the trousers their boys tore climbing over fences, dresses that needed extra ruffles for length as their girls grew.... Put a needle through her thumb in 1860 and it went septic. Decided it was too soon, she wasn't ready to go, so she didn't."

James' skin is warm pressed to Michael’s back and his voice is so dear. Michael reaches for James’ fingers, still resting on his arm, and clasps them tight. How could any day _not_ be too soon. How.

"She doesn't hold with all this modern casual clothing," James goes on. His fingers squeeze Michael’s in return, a tangible echo of Michael’s own sentiment. "She thinks we'd both look quite smart in suits. Although she's no complaints about the figure you cut outside of one...."

"Thank you for the compliment, ma'am." Michael looks directly into the dark mirror as he says it, no flinching. James shoots him a pleased grin before concentrating on the mirror again, this time for a long, silent moment. 

Gently, he slides the drawer shut.

"Midnight," James says quietly. His hand lingers on the handle. "This - this is when it’s good. When you meet good people."

Thank God, Michael thinks. Thank God it can be good. For what that means for James, now, living out this night year after year. For whatever it may mean for the future, whatever their futures may hold, however their days may end. "Tell me something," Michael says, swallowing against the heaviness in his throat. He tugs at James, turning him in his arms. "Is she happy?"

"Not always,” James says slowly. “But often. Best any of us can ever hope for, really, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Michael’s eyes are closed, his nose buried in James' hair. They're swaying in place now, bodies pressed together, a breath from dancing. "And we'll see her next year."

Water rushes into the deep old tub and the candles burn white. A year of late nights and lazy mornings, of books piling up in the parlour and tree leaves changing from green to rust and gold out on the road. James cooking curries on the stove and a new flavour of hummus every week in the refrigerator. A year of life.

James' kiss is like a flash of light, a bright touch of blood and spirit. It says yes without words, but with all the joy and commitment and love that one syllable can muster. 

Michael listens, and he understands.

They take their bath by candlelight and go to bed, tucked warm beneath the covers in a room with open window-shutters, the cat winking at the world once more. They sleep in a tangle of limbs and hearts and dreams until the sun slips in, the promise of a new day in its hands.


End file.
